Daybreak Makes Me Want to Cut My Own Head Off

Originally typed at unreasonableOclock on Friday 11th Feb.


It's a crude title, to be sure, but to the point. Everything about the TV Show 'Daybreak' is horrible. 

It is barely gone seven and there are two cheeky, cheery chappies already handing out some Daily Mail style home-truths. These two presenters, Adrian Chiles and Christine Bleakley, are the type of nauseatingly nice and optimistic people. The nation actually seems to enjoy letting the two of them patronize us. Today's hot topics were: 

Smacking, is right to be an authoritarian right-wing home-nazi? We think so. But only sometimes.

Raising a child versus not raising a child. Should the man stay at home? Should you only work part-time? Should you only have a child if you can financially afford to support it? Some of our viewers believe in sterilizing the poor.

Kate Middleton. Is she too fat? Too thin? Are her clothes the wrong colour? Is she more like Diana or the Queen Mother as portrayed in 'The King's Speech'? We believe that this is actually interesting and important.

Death sentence for Chav who threw a brick at a car and injured a young model. Is there such a thing as over-reaction when we apply the law?

During the programme, they are joined by a bunch of horrendously unreal characters so overtly middle-class that they might have been pulled out of a Guardian reader's club were it not for the atrocious bile that gurgled from their lips. Together, they form some unholy union that manages to be completely serious and absolutely irrelevant at the same time.

Then we've got a break for the weather, which consists of another cheeky, cheery chappie telling us in the most sweet and patronizing way that it is raining. Everywhere. Ceaselessly. Forever.

There is a special on the royal wedding, Valentines Day, and weddings in general, with lots of other enthusiastic sighing and lovey-dovey mush. Finally, they tell me that JLS will be on later, and I have brief Rambo style Vietnam flashbacks to enduring six hours of their latest album whilst serving pop to irritating little girls. When Lady Gaga came on for a brief hour-long interlude, I thought about gouging out my own eyes, but before I could grab the spoons Katy Perry's Teenage Dream Album kicked in and I felt like I was actually drowning and unable to stop it.

In fact, I can't do it. It's horrible. Everything about Daybreak is horrible. When I turn on the TV before it is even daylight outside, the only thing I want to see is a recording of my bleary eyed, unshaven face. I can be sat on a grubby sofa in some sort of dim and pokey hole, surrounded by empty pod-noodles and bottles of vodka, telling myself to give up and go back to bed.